


\impasse/

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Arguing, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kinktober, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, One Big Unresolved Argument, Oral Sex, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:02:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26881123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: He's furious with his husband. He, who? Exactly.Whumptober: Support + Enemy to Caretaker + Kinktober: Blowjob
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	\impasse/

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober + Kinktober = this experiment. I have a handful of different Kinktober prompt lists and the Whumptober prompt list, so I'm going to cross them over as much as I can. Today's came from [Kinktober](https://jbbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/627189398153363456/kinktober-2020) and [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated).

It wasn’t like Malcolm hadn’t been forewarned at home, grumbling into his coffee. But, “Bright, your ass is on desk duty until you learn how to work in a team!” seems a bit harsh for jumping in the back of a moving delivery truck after spotting one of their arson suspects was about to drive away. The barked words drill into his skin in a bevy of small bleeds, difficult to find, yet extremely irritating.

He’s not particularly thrilled with his husband for benching him when they still have other suspects to find and bring in. Come to think of it, Gil probably isn’t too thrilled with him, either, if being holed up in his office is any indication. Grumbling at his desk, Malcolm does his best not to look in that direction.

He can't locate arsonists in a pile of paperwork. Materials, resources, vehicles — out in the city is where to be. He makes an offhand comment under his breath — what is he supposed to do stuck in the precinct, make coffee? — but that gets him hollered at again by one, two — JT. “Bright, _every_ job is important.”

“I am no use in here!” Malcolm returns in exasperation, throwing up his hands and making a display of papers fleeing from his desk. Not exactly what he intended — the outburst is getting away from him.

He apparently says it too loud, as Gil’s head pops out of his office and bellows, “Then go home, Bright.”

Malcolm glares back at him, the two of them turning the air between them from interior 68 into a daily record of 107, unblinking. Gil won’t expect him to call his bluff — it’s the only way to restore some sense of control.

Grabbing his coat, Malcolm strides for the front doors of the precinct and doesn’t look back.

* * *

Malcolm has rearranged their entire book collection — every shelf in the living room. Cleaned all of the weapons. Thrown his stress ball at the wall for half an hour so he doesn’t give in to the temptation to smash a few underused glasses.

He’s still so fucking angry at his husband. It bubbles in all the microscopic thorns he can’t find, simmers in the infectious echo of scorn. Oozes from his pits and chest as he exerts himself, stinging his open wounds.

No matter how much he tidies their already spotless apartment, it doesn’t clean up the evidence of their disagreement littering his mind. There isn’t a compartment big enough to stuff his outburst back into, and the more he works, the more he’s convinced he shouldn’t want to. He stood his ground, stood up for himself for a change, and that has to count for something.

If that’s a development, why doesn’t he feel any better? Why can’t he function?

He pulls on leggings and a hoodie, thinking a run might be a last resort to calm himself down enough so he can sit still, accomplish something useful.

His phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.

Gil.

It’s so incredibly tempting to silence it and give an excuse later. Younger him probably would have pulled it. Married him won’t. Availability is part of the trust they’ve built.

“Hey,” he answers. Picking up the phone and actually having a conversation are two entirely different things. He doesn’t have anything to say.

“Everything’s okay,” Gil says.

Shit. Malcolm sits on one of the bar stools, his throat tighter than it was a second ago.

“I need you to please get my car from the precinct and — “

“What happened?” All of the emotions trapped inside of Malcolm leak into his voice.

“I broke my foot.”

“Old age or something?” Malcolm lets out nervously.

“Everything’s fine now, just can’t drive, so need you to get my car and pick me up.” 

Gil sounds so nonchalant about it, but Malcolm is just not. Scenarios of what could have played out on scene riddle his head, challenging that he’s actually talking to his husband. He heads out the door before Gil can even tell him what hospital.

* * *

Malcolm probably should have remembered his coat when he left to get Gil. Common sense must have been another thing that escaped him when worst-case scenarios moved in, bringing their best doom and gloom until Gil was in front of him, hobbling his way to the parking lot.

It doesn’t feel quite right wearing his injured husband’s coat. It’s already weird enough he’s driving his car. “I don’t need it, Bright,” Gil tells him again when he’s caught looking over another time with the same question on his lips.

Malcolm can tell he’s shivering. Uncomfortable. Pushed down the stairs at sixty is far from a painless experience, not that he thinks he’d fare any better at his age, so he should probably let the age bit go. There’s a cut along the side of his cheek he wants to kiss away. He hasn’t gotten a look at what’s underneath the sweater and trousers yet, but if Gil’s shifting is any indication, he’s downplaying how much bruising is involved.

“I’m fine.”

They both know what that phrase means. How much to trust each other with it. Zero — a fact they’ve decided to accept and live with.

It’s a long ride home, Malcolm looking over at Gil, Gil attempting to reassure him he doesn’t need to. Never mind the speed limit he hovers at, on edge that he’s driving Gil’s most precious possession.

* * *

Malcolm supports Gil walking up the stairs while he leans on a crutch, Gil not quite balanced enough to avoid falling backwards. It takes forever and sounds painful — Gil’s out of breath by the time they reach the top.

“I’m gonna go shower,” Gil says, poised to climb the interior stairs by himself.

“Why not use this one?” Malcolm points out. They usually stick to their own separate bathrooms because it’s faster to get ready at the same time, but there’s no need right now.

“Upstairs has the ledge of the tub I can sit on.”

Logic Malcolm doesn’t have an answer for. He helps Gil up another flight and leaves him to the bathroom, alone with his energy again.

Dinner. He should make him some dinner. Item number infinity that Gil is better at.

Something easy, comforting. Something easy, comforting. He makes grilled cheese and sets it up on a tray. A bowl of microwaved Campbell’s tomato goes next to it, and he brings the whole thing back upstairs. He makes another trip for the forgotten sparkling water and glasses and waits on his husband’s bed.

Gil comes in in his robe, the sides flapping apart as he works the crutches. With nothing on underneath it, Malcolm can see some speckled bruises on his legs, glimpse his chest as the tie works loose.

“Thanks,” Gil says, sitting beside him. “I could’ve come down.”

“Pretty sure the doctor said rest,” Malcolm teases as he props his husband’s boot up onto a few pillows. He inspects the cut on his cheek next, thumb tracing below it, and Gil kisses his palm.

“Help me eat some of this.” Gil points one of the sandwich halves into Malcolm’s mouth. Malcolm takes a bite, then Gil takes it away to dunk in the soup and offers him another.

Malcolm slides Gil’s robe to the side and traces one of the larger bruises. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah — only the foot.”

“You take something?”

“Ibuprofen.”

“Good.”

As Gil keeps eating, the ties on his robe slip further apart and bare most of one of his thighs. Malcolm runs his fingers back and forth on the exposed skin, playing with the small hairs.

A few days back, he had come upstairs to collect his husband for the day, only to wind up with his head resting in his lap, nosing at his soft cock through his boxers. “Time to get ready” turned into mouthing his length, sucking his filling head, and palming his balls as the minutes to get out the door ticked down. Gil’s heavier breathing occupied the air until come spilled into Malcolm’s mouth, a more energizing way to start the day than breakfast. Commonplace contact that hadn’t registered as distinctive, but given the past couple of days, feels like more than a week ago now.

“Did you go for a run?” Gil asks, pulling him from his daydreaming.

Malcolm looks down at his clothes, having forgotten that detail. “Didn’t quite get out the door.”

Gil rubs the base of Malcolm’s neck. “What’d you do today?”

“Argued with my husband.” Malcolm releases a dry laugh. “Rearranged most of the living room.”

“It looked the same.”

“Yeah.” Malcolm gives a wan smile. “Nervous energy. That’s about how the day went.”

“Dealt with a cranky suspect after my cranky husband, so today’s been a real winner.”

“It bugs the hell out of me when you treat me like a child.”

One of Gil’s eyebrows reaches for his forehead. “You threw a temper tantrum.”

“You sent me to my room!”

Gil laughs. “And that’s the one thing you chose to listen to.”

They lay the tracks as they argue, barely keeping up with the barreling train of their mutual frustration. The soup jiggles on the bed beside them as Malcolm’s arms get more animated. “I stood up for myself,” Malcolm proclaims.

“You were unprofessional.” Gil points the spoon at him.

“You scolded me in front of the team.” It irks Malcolm to no end that now that they’re alone, he can’t get Gil to match his tone. There isn’t that same level of fury that was so plainly displayed in the precinct.

“I talked to you at home, then in my office. You’re the one who chose to make a scene.”

“A scene?” Was he hanging around his mother again? “You _yelled_ at me.”

“Yes, I did.”

The concession takes the steam out of the argument, the train halting between them, creasing the covers from hip to foot. There may as well be a physical divide on the bed, for they’re on opposite sides of the tracks, no closer to being on the same page.

“I need my job, Gil.”

“I need you alive,” Gil says, squeezing his hand. Malcolm squeezes back, then reclaims his distance.

The two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but Gil pressing the issue makes it seem that way. “You didn’t acknowledge I’ve tried. I made a mistake, yes, but it was a calculated — “

“Stop. You made a _choice_. A choice to put your safety, and the team’s safety, second. That’s the issue.” Gil is stern, that paternal tone that started this disagreement knocking Malcolm down a peg again.

He’s not wrong, but stating a truth doesn’t acknowledge Malcolm’s feelings. Doesn’t account for the many other points brought up. Doesn’t approach an apology. Doesn’t stop the anger zinging through his body, ready to force its own opening to escape. “One of us had to get picked up from the hospital today. It wasn’t me.”

“You’re deflecting.“

Malcolm slips off the bed and looks out the window, searching for calmness and something he can say to make some headway. The brisk wind whips the _Fresh Baked Cookies_ sign on the café awning beyond the square. A newspaper flips down the sidewalk, chasing pedestrians with the history they’ve forgotten. “I don’t feel like I’m being heard,” he admits quietly, hands sheltered in the front pocket of his hoodie.

“I feel the same.” A flicker of agreement.

Several people congregate at the light, waiting for the gates to open between cars. Another streaks through them, chasing their own path, reacting to whatever comes. “Do you have everything you need for a while?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna go for a run. Text me — “

“I’ll be fine, Bright.”

Malcolm turns back to his husband. “I’m glad you’re okay. I didn’t tell you that and… I am.”

“Me, too,” Gil says, and Malcolm looks at him another moment, mentally erasing the cut from his face. “Enjoy the fresh air. I’ll see if I can find my listening ears.”

Malcolm squints his eyes and sticks out the tip of his tongue, then leaves, running into the street.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> i've received significant support from so many people in this fandom that help make my writing possible. as this story is E, if you're 18+ and would like to chat prodigal son with wicked awesome people, come on by the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/TVkmgxV).


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